


Sam Winchester, Voice of Reason

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Denial, Drinking, Headcanon, M/M, Pre-Slash, T for language is all, Truth Bombs, this is what I write instead of meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Honestly," Sam says, "I've said my piece. You know where I'm coming from, you know what you need to do if you wanna fix...this. Us. Whatever. I don't want to talk about that."</p><p>"Great," says Dean. "Then what, you wanna talk about the weather?"</p><p>"No," says Sam. "I wanna talk about Cas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam Winchester, Voice of Reason

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking how great it would be if Sam kept up his two-minute Things Dean Needs to Hear monologues for a few more episodes. And of course this is where I ended up.

They've been here before, thinks Dean as he looks up from his bourbon—hell, it's practically a standing appointment by now. Case wrapped up, bedtime for Sammy, but first, time to tear another piece out of Dean, since obviously he's not gutted enough.

Well, fuck it. He's got so little left to lose anyway, might as well let the overgrown twerp talk.

"What," Dean says tonelessly. Sam's hovering in the doorway, tall and tentative. "Go for it, dude, I can take it. Tell me again what a shitty brother I am, it's really awesome to hear."

"If you're gonna insist on acting like a child, Dean, I'll just leave," says Sam tersely. 

Dean downs his liquor, runs a hand over his stubbled chin. "No, really. Go ahead. I'm—I'm trying, Sam, I swear to God."

"Honestly," Sam says, "I've said my piece. You know where I'm coming from, you know what you need to do if you wanna fix...this. Us. Whatever. I don't want to talk about that."

"Great," says Dean. "Then what, you wanna talk about the weather?"

"No," says Sam. "I wanna talk about Cas."

Dean's going to need another drink for this. He pours two, no, three fingers, takes a sip. "What about him? He's gone. Angeled up, flown the coop—well, not flown, because he's got no fucking wings anymore."

Sam huffs out a breath, that special mix of annoyed and resigned Dean's grow to hate over the years. "You're in love with him," he says finally.

This, Dean was not expecting, and he almost chokes on his drink, though his mouth has suddenly gone dry. "What the fuck are you talking about, Sammy? That's ridiculous, I can't be in— _love,_ or whatever, with Cas. I'm straight."

"You are not," Sam snorts. "For fuck's sake, Dean, I have _eyes._ I have seen you check out dudes a hundred times, and I've seen the way you look at Cas, and the way he looks at you, for fucking _years._ Just because you're too macho to do anything about being bisexual doesn't mean you aren't."

"Wait," Dean blurts before he can hold the words back. "What do you mean the way he looks at me? What way?"

Sam drops his forehead to the doorframe with a soft thunk. "Good Lord," he mutters. "Dean. He's in love with you too. You're in big epic tragic love, OK?"

Dean doesn’t answer—he’s sort of forgotten how to talk—and Sam just barrels on: “For a long time I thought I was reading too much into things. Into the...goddamn _staring._ You know I _counted,_ Dean? Cas’d show up, you’d lock eyes, I’d stand there half-listening and thinking _one Mississippi, two Mississippi._ I wrote it down for a while, in between seals, if you wanna see it—I’ve got fucking _quantifiable data_ that you two stare at each other like twice as long as you look at anyone else.

“And he _fell_ for you, Dean, how fucking literal can you get? He gave up Heaven, and he sure didn’t do it for me. And then the coat. That damn coat—Dean, I watched you move that thing between a dozen different trunks, and you held it like—like, I don’t know, a kitten or a vase or something, something breakable. When you thought I was dead for a year? You gave my shit to Goodwill that _next week.”_

He stops to breathe, gives Dean a look that’s almost tender. “I know this is a strange time to bring it up, Dean. It’s just—look, you need to figure out yourself, who you are when you’re not saving me, and Cas is part of that. He needs to be part of that. For both of you.”

And he walks away, before Dean can protest or punch him or burst into tears or any of the dozen other things Dean wants to do right now. Like drink. Drinking is good, especially if he wants to sleep tonight.

 _In love with Cas. Cas in love with him._ “As if,” he says aloud to the empty room. Sammy’s brain must be permanently scrambled from the trials _(or from you sticking a psycho angel in him,_ pipes up the voice in his head it’s getting harder to ignore). 

Dean’s not bisexual—he’d _know_ if he was bisexual, right? He’d like, think about kissing on dudes. When he was awake. Sure, he’s had dreams. Everybody has weird sex dreams, they don’t count. Kissing Cas in dreams, or touching him, or being touched…that doesn’t count.

(Even if he does have those dreams an awful lot. In fact, he suddenly can’t remember the last sex dream he had where he _didn’t_ co-star with Cas.)

And the coat, whatever. He was…well, Cas was gone, wasn’t he? And they didn’t have a body or a grave or anything. The coat was a portable tombstone, a way to remember. It wasn’t some big romantic gesture.

It _wasn’t._

Something breaks inside him—he feels it snap, like a bone beneath a sledgehammer. And it hurts, like it hurt breaking down that reaper’s door, but there’s something— _someone_ on the other side who needs to be saved. 

He thinks, maybe, it’s him.


End file.
